Power of the Pen
by The Fool's Hope
Summary: Various people take up their pens for various reasons after the death of Sherlock Holmes. A collection of things written down during the Hiatus. Epilogue: All's right with the world. This story is COMPLETE.
1. Prologue

_A/N: Hi everyone! I'm covered in black paint! Just thought you might like to know._

_I've been a bit AWOL on this site for a while--I haven't been reading/reviewing as often as I usually do (sorry!) I've been busy painting a room entirely black. It's way, way, way too much fun, and I'm convinced that I got more paint on myself than on the walls. But I'm working with my director, who is also my English teacher, which means we have some great literary discussions, which is partly where some of the ideas for this came from. And we're just about finished, which means I'll be back to my usual R&R-ing :)_

_Anyway. This is the prologue, and it started out as a one shot. Which is why it reads like a one shot. But it turned into something bigger, so there is more to come. :)_

* * *

What bothered Mycroft the most was that he felt so little.

Perhaps it was just delayed, he told himself. Perhaps he was in denial. But he knew that wasn't true. He wasn't in denial, but he wasn't in a state of shock, either. He was just... accepting.

Sherlock was dead. Doctor Watson had come by in person, looking absolutely dreadful, unshaven and with dark circles under his slightly red eyes. He hadn't been sleeping. He'd told Mycroft the news, in halting words, as if terrified that Mycroft would deny it or collapse in a fit of emotion. Mycroft felt somewhere that he should have--Sherlock was his brother, after all--but he had never been one for showing emotion and in any case the Doctor didn't look up to supporting anyone, emotionally or physically. He was the one that needed support. And besides... Mycroft did not feel shocked. He did not feel anything, really--he was saddened, but there was no acute feeling of loss.

It was as if he had been expecting such a development.

Which, to be perfectly honest, he had been, though he'd done his best to be optomistic about the whole thing. He lacked feeling because he had already known, somehow, that he would lose his brother.

He sat alone in his office at Whitehall, not paying much attention to what he was doing; instead brooding on his emotions. Like his brother, he had not been one for showing much feeling, but he had not shunned it as Sherlock had. But now, surely some sort of display of feeling was called for.

Somehow, he could not conjure it. Sherlock was gone, and he had already accepted that, even before he and the Doctor had left for the continent. They had both known that it was unlikely he would make it out of the business alive.

And so he mourned his brother, in quiet acceptance--but it bothered him, that he felt so little.

His secretary slipped into his office noiselessly. The whole staff knew of the death of his brother, and were acting deucedly cautious as a result, speaking in hushed tones around him, as though loud noises would remind him of Sherlock. (Upon reflection, Mycroft realized that this was not so ridiculous an assumption). The woman dropped an envelope on his desk and froze as she met his eyes. After a moment she bobbed her head jerkily and exited rather more quickly than she had come.

Everyone was on edge with the death of Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft sighed heavily. He would save the brooding on his emotions in connection with his brother for another time. He picked up the envelope and read its contents.

He read it again.

Bloody hell.

He crumpled the note in his hand, then smoothed it out and read it again before crumpling it once more. Of all the...

He hadn't been feeling much before, but he was now. He was furious. He threw the note across the room. Crumpled as it was, the message could still be read from where he sat.

NOT DEAD. REQUIRE FUNDS. SAY NOTHING. SHERLOCK.

Not dead. Sherlock was alive.

_Not for long, brother mine_, Mycroft thought to himself. _Not for long_. He did not bother to question its validity--anyone trying to play a prank on him would no doubt have sent a heartfelt letter; sending sentence fragments to declare that he remained in the land of the living to his only brother had Sherlock written all over it.

Mycroft was glad that Moriarty had not killed Sherlock, as it would have deprived him of the opportunity to do it himself. Once he was through with him, his brother would just wish he was at the bottom of a waterfall...

But he was alive. Eventually Mycroft would allow the relief flowing from that simple statement to wash over him fully, but not now. For now he would just enjoy being angry at his infuriating younger brother.

* * *

_A/N: More coming! once I edit it..._


	2. Brotherly Love

_A/N: Oh look, another chapter :)_

_I would like to point out that although I do try to keep everyone IC throughout all my stories, I am bound to fail every now and then. And I get humerous license. So there. #sticks out defiant tongue#_

_Thanks go to P.G. Wodehouse for the inspiration for some of these lines._

* * *

**A series of missives exchanged between Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes:**

My dear brother,

How are you? I was glad to learn that your health had improved since the last time I heard from you. The weather here is especially beautiful for this time of year; I hope this is true for you as well.

In response to the thoughtful queries in your last missive: I have been a little under the weather lately, but this morning I was much improved, feeling more invigorated than I have in a long time. Yes, Whitehall remains the same for the most part, but we can't have everything. As per your request I gave your regards to Miss Daniels, who sends all her love.

Do continue to keep in touch, brother. I'm sure that upon the arrival of your next missive I shall have a moment or two to glance at it.

Regards,  
Mycroft

--

Mycroft--

What the devil are you blathering about? If you think I've the time to listen to you witter about the weather you aren't nearly as intelligent as you are given credit for. What part of "require funds" is unclear to you? Send money immediately.

--Sherlock

P.S. Nor have I the time for Miss Daniels. You know I cannot abide the woman. Refrain from mentioning her to me in the future.

--

Dearest brother mine,

I would be perfectly happy to comply with your request, but for the unfortunate fact that you are dead. I was terribly sorry to hear this, but one must not dwell on these things.

Weather continues fine. Miss Daniels sends her warmest regards.

Sincerely yours,  
Mycroft

--

Mycroft--

Did a load of bricks fall on your head since I left London? I am not dead, I tell you. I am simply using an unexpected opportunity to ensure the capture of several dangerous criminals. And I require funds.

--Sherlock

--

My dearest brother,

Clearly subtle hints have not managed to penetrate your abnormally thick skull, so I shall have to be more blatant.

What the devil are you doing? Why did you allow everyone--including your own brother, not to mention your dearest friend--to believe that you were dead at the bottom of a waterfall? What possible reason could you have for this deception? What purpose could it serve? And how can you live with yourself? The city is grieving your passing and you are sending six word notes begging money off your brother. I deeply regret that you are a thousand miles from London as I am unable to hit you with a brick. Explain.

Regards,  
Mycroft

--

Mycroft--

I suppose an explanation is called for. Moriarty and I fought. He went over the edge of the falls and I didn't, but I realized that if everyone in London believed that I had, the criminal classes would eventually become careless and expose themselves. Thus I left the falls and have been traveling ever since. My note to you was somewhat brief because I was in a hurry, and because there really was very little else to say. I will return at the opportune moment, when in comes. In the meantime, I shall travel the continent.

As to not telling you--as you can see, I did tell you. I did not tell Watson, and I beg that you will do the same. It would be most unfortunate if my secret were to come out. I fear that if Watson's demeanor were uncharacteristic for a man who has just lost a friend then Moriarty's remaining agents may become suspicious. It could put my secret in danger, and it could put him in danger. I am not willing to risk that. Telling you is dangerous enough, but with your limited contact with other people I suspected that it would not likely be a problem, and there was no other way for me to obtain the money I required. And still require.

--Sherlock

P.S. I do not doubt that I have told you very little that you had not already figured out for yourself.

--

Sherlock--

You are correct. I had come to many of those conclusions already. I cannot say that I support the decision, but the reasoning is sound. I am sending you the funds you requested, merely because I would like to keep you alive long enough to kill you myself. The Doctor is not taking it well--he believes he has just lost his best friend. You should tell him.

Do not think that I am finished with you.

Miss Daniels sends all her love.

Regards,  
Mycroft

--

Mycroft--

Do stop blathering about Miss Daniels. There has never been a more dim-witted woman in the entire city of London.

I shall tell Watson myself, when the time is right. Believe me when I say that I wish I was not deceiving him like this. It is, however, a necessary precaution.

I will be traveling to Tibet in the near future, I think. Do not expect to hear from me for a while; I will contact you in good time.

Keep my rooms at Baker Street just as they are--when the time comes for me to return to them I shall wish for them to be preserved. And do keep an eye on Watson.

--Sherlock

P.S. Thank you for your assistance, brother.

* * *

_A/N: More to come :)_


	3. Bits and Pieces

_A/N: To all Gregson fans: I did not mean for Gregson to be a complete prick in this story, but that's what he sounds like right here... I've always imagined him as being the more stuck up of the two, though, so it's manifested itself in whatever way it could here :P_

* * *

****

**Fragments from the desk of Inspector G. Lestrade:**

**--**

Lestrade--  
The robbery case is being wrapped up. We don't have the man, but we have the goods, and that's the best we're going to get, I'm afraid.  
Bradstreet

--

-Mrs. Tolliver + Miss. Smith no longer revieving blackmail threats--assumed gone down with M.

-Murder of Mr. Briggs M's work

-Two recent robberies M's work

-Three more of M's crew rounded up (ran, the scoundrels)

-Buy bread on way home (assuming I get there)

--

Lestrade--  
I have just cleared up the murder of Lord Selachii (it was Venturi, of course). If you find yourself needing any extra help with one of your cases don't hesitate to ask.  
--Gregson

--

Inspector Lestrade,  
I'm afraid Gordon will not be back on his feet as soon as you'd like--he is well out of danger, but the bullet managed to lodge itself under a rib, and it was rather difficult to remove. Wilson, however, is perfectly all right, and eager to get back to work.  
I will have Gordon back to full health as soon as possible. Hopefully there will not be such a dramatic deluge of damage to your constables in the near future; if things remain relatively quiet I should be quite surprised if he does not make a full recovery within two weeks.  
--Dr. J. Ward

--

INSPECTOR LESTRADE  
PUZZLING MURDER STOP COME EDGEWAY ROAD STOP  
WILSON

--

Two more confessions from Moriarty's men. And a few pointed fingers. Honour among thieves, hah.  
--Bradstreet

--

Lestrade--  
I hear you have been assigned to the rather puzzling murder on Edgeway Road. I have just successfully concluded another case. Do tell me if you desire any sort of assistance.  
--Gregson

--

Mr. Robert Jordan, 63, found dead in his house by neighbour. Killed with blunt instrument (probably club of some sort); skull smashed in. "From Lucinda, with love" on piece of paper lying next to him. Pockets filled with rocks. Why dickins?

--

Lestrade--  
No new leads on Edgeway Road? It has been two weeks.  
--Gregson

--

Edgeway Road:

-Mr. Jordan--retired lawyer, 63 yrs of age, lived alone

-Generally disliked by neighbours, colleagues, probably own grandmother

-Was last seen leaving his club

-Killed with blunt instrument; stabbed multiple times--crime of pssn?

-"From Lucinda, with love" found next to him--no one knows who Lucinda is

-No sign of forced entry; door locked from inside

-Why the devil were his pockets filled with rocks?

-Blast it all, if only we still had Sherlock Holmes!

* * *

_A/N: FOR PEOPLE WHO GOT ALERTS THAT CHAPTER 4 WAS UP--Sorry... sorry, sorry, sorry... mistake... #hides face# It'll be up soon though!_


	4. Diary of the British Government

_A/N: Sorry for short chapter :P Next one will be longer..._

_I don't really like this chapter, but I've worked at it for a while, and I've decided to just go ahead and add it to the story, so I'll be motivated to get the next chapter up all the faster._

_Also, have you seen my Mycroft voice? It appears to have wandered off..._

* * *

**An Excerpt from the Diary of Mycroft Holmes:**

I sincerely doubt that Sherlock has any idea how intolerable it is to be wearing mourning clothes when there is no one to mourn. I don't believe I have ever been so uncomfortable for so long in all my life. My subordinates are tip-toeing around me as if I were a grenade about to explode--and they wonder why I dislike human interaction! --and I am still recieving condolences concerning the loss of my brother, some from people who I am sure never knew I even had a brother.

Well, there is only so much I can take. After all this is over, I'm never mourning him again, no matter how many times he dies.

Come to think of it, I am not even certain how long the appropriate mourning period is for one's brother. I suppose I should continue to make a show of it, since at least one criminal left in London knows Sherlock is alive. But I don't know that I can take much more of this accursed black.

And as if I did not have enough to do, I have to deal with

* * *

**THE FOLLOWING TWO SECTIONS HAVE BEEN CENSORED AS THEY CONTAIN DELICATE MATTERS OF GREAT IMPORTANCE TO NATIONAL AND INTERNATIONAL AFFAIRS**

* * *

One would think that one of the world's most powerful men would be more mature than _that_.

I have not heard from Sherlock for some time now--no doubt he will contact me soon enough, when he is in need of further funds. I have been keeping an eye on the Doctor, as he asked, but I'm afraid there is not much I can do for him. The last time I saw him, he was more subdued than I have ever seen him, and his eyes were full of distance. Now where on earth did that phrase come from? I am not the poetic type, as anyone who knows me will agree. But I can think of no better way to describe the look in his eyes.

Sherlock has not told him yet, then. Perhaps he is right; perhaps it is still too early. But I do wish he would just drop it all and announce his continued existance. It is rather trying to see the rest of the city mourning in earnest whilst I sit here with the knowledge that my infuriating brother is alive and well and in Tibet. In Tibet, for heaven's sake!

* * *

_A/N: Another chapter coming soon! Once I finish editing it... _


	5. Trial and Error

**A series of missives exchanged between Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes:**

**--**

Mycroft--

My travels in Tibet have been most enjoyable and informative so far. However, I find myself in need of resources once more. I am still traveling under the name Sigerson.

I have been keeping an eye on the London news, searching for an opportunity to return. If an occasion arises do not hesitate to notify me.

--Sherlock

--

Sherlock--

Oh, so glad to hear that your little vacation is enjoyable. You faked your own death, man. This is not some sort of relaxing getaway. I refuse to believe that you are decieving the entire world without suffering for it. I don't want to hear anything about enjoyable experiences.

As for an opportunity to return--you lose one with every passing moment. I don't know how long you are going to continue this little deception, but I believe it would be best to end it sooner rather than later.

The Yard has been having a much easier time of things with Moriarty gone, overall, although they do seem to be at a loss over a certain murder case. The Doctor has not been quite himself since you left. You have not told him yet. I am waiting for you to do so.

--Mycroft

P.S. Is there any reason why a murder victim's pockets would be filled with rocks? I assume it is the murderer's way of making a personal statement about the reason he killed the man, but I do not possess the vast and sometimes disturbing knowledge of crime that you do.

--

Mycroft--

By an opportunity to return, I mean sufficient cause--one of Moriarty's remaining agents being put away, for example, or making a mistake that will allow me to ensure his removal from society.

I shall tell Watson when the time is right.

--Sherlock

P.S. I can but speculate, of course, but I am inclined to think that the murdered man may have been responsible for or related to a drowning, either suicide or murder. This could have been an attack of revenge by a concerned party, who filled his pockets with rocks for a symbolic effect.

--

Sherlock--

Moran and Rollins are both still at large. I expect them to lie low for some time. You cannot wait forever you know. As for the Doctor, I see no reason why the time is not right now. What is staying your hand?

--Mycroft

P.S. Your drowning theory is sounder than any that the Yard have come up with recently. However, I believe that they are going to leave this one unsolved. Unless I find a way to work the idea of a drowning victim into a casual conversation with a Yarder, I'm afraid there will be no way to investigate further until your return.

--

**The crumpled contents of the wastebasket of Mr. Sigerson:**

**--**

My dear Watson,

I suppose this will come as something of a surprise to you, but I hope that you will be gladdened by it. I don't imagine it ever occured to you that your friend Sherlock Holmes was alive and well. I did not tell you because I was afraid a remaining agent of Moriarty

--

My dear Watson,

I suppose this will come as something of a surprise to you, but I hope that you will be gladdened by it. I don't imagine it ever occured to you that your friend Sherlock Holmes was alive and well. I did not tell you because I felt that the risks were too great--if anyone were to discover my secret

--

My dear Watson,

I suppose this will come as something of a surprise to you, but I hope that you will be gladdened by it. I don't imagine it ever occured to you that your friend Sherlock Holmes

--

My dear Watson,

I have news for you which I have kept from you long enough--I, Sherlock Holmes, did not perish at the Reichenbach falls as you thought I had.

--

My dear Watson,

I am writing to you in order to address the issue of my death a year ago. It did not happen.

--

My dear Watson,

I write to you with news that will, I sincerely hope, be agreeable to you. I, Sherlock Holmes, survived my encounter with Professor Moriarty. Though I doubt that anyone suspected I had any hope of coming out of the business alive, I managed, somehow. I was compelled, however, to convince the world that I had indeed plunged into those watery depths along with the Professor. It was a plan to ensure the capture of several criminals which I knew were likely to escape the law. I realised, as I watched Moriarty fall, that chance had given me an extraordinary opportunity, and I would have been a fool had I not taken advantage of it. I must, however, apologise for keeping the truth from you. I thought it necessary, however, because


	6. Heaps and Mounds

_A/N: I don't want to seem like I'm just making a bunch of pointless chapters in this--I know this chapter is not much different from the last one like it, but I felt like it needed to be in here. There is a reason for every chapter I write (they're not all GOOD reasons, but they're still reasons :) Anyway, I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

**Fragments from the desk of Inspector G. Lestrade:**

--

-Edward Molesey, 34 years of age

-Found stabbed through the heart in his office at around noon--seen going in alone not ten minutes before

-no struggle was heard

-door locked from inside--WHY is the door ALWAYS locked on the inside?!

-Pocket watch smashed on floor

-Cigarette case broken, also on floor

-Wallet open and tossed on floor, but still with contents

-Gloves on floor next to other items--one with torn middle finger

-Soot on floor around fireplace

--

Inspector,  
I informed the immediate family; they had nothing important to tell us. He has two sisters, Miss Eleanor Molesey and Mrs. Abigail Heberling. Neither of them could think of a reason why their brother would be murdered. They're willing to help us in any way they can, and I told them you would probably want to question them yourself.  
Gordon

--

Lestrade,  
I hear you've been assigned to the Molesey murder. I cannot say that I envy you.  
Gregson

--

Inspector Lestrade,  
Wilson is fine for the moment, but should not exert himself more than necessary for the next week or so. His arm is healing nicely. I did not ask how he acquired that particular pattern of bruises, and I highly doubt that I ever want to know.  
Dr. J. Ward

--

Why smash the pocket watch? cigarette case? Searching for something. What was he searching for?

Supposing he escaped up the chimney? Soot would indicate that

But what kind of monkey escapes up a chimney? Small man, able climber

--

Lestrade,  
The Molesey mystery has not turned up anything new, has it? We may have to shelve it for the time being; there was rather a nasty business down by the river.  
Bradstreet

--

Peculiar ring imprinted in the man's torn glove, near tip of finger.

--

INSPECTOR  
SOHO SHOPKEEPER BADLY BEATEN STOP SHOP BURGLED STOP  
GORDON

--

Cousin--son of father's brother

Father worked as jeweler

--

Jewelry?

--

Lestrade,  
The man responsible for the recent burglary has been apprehended; he confessed after a brief struggle.  
Bradstreet

--

Jewelry! Father--cousin--Molesey. Stolen ring!

--

INSPECTOR  
COUSIN HIDING WITH FORMER WIFE'S BROTHER NEAR RIVER STOP AWAITING YOUR RETURN WITH WARRANT STOP  
GORDON

--

Lestrade,  
Many congratulations are in order, I must say. I confess that I had considered the Molesey case a lost cause, with so little provided information, but you did a commendable job of wrapping it up. I believe even the late Mr. Sherlock Holmes would have scratched his head at that problem. Again, excellent work.  
Bradstreet

--

INSPECTOR LESTRADE  
HEARTIEST CONGRATULATIONS ON SUCCESSFUL CONCLUSION TO MOLESEY MYSTERY STOP EXCELLENT WORK ON YOUR PART STOP HOLMES WOULD BE IMPRESSED STOP  
WATSON

--

Inspector Lestrade,  
Wilson is not to be given any assignments that involve the use of his arms for the next two weeks. I can't imagine how he managed to break the other one so soon after the first had finished healing, but he absolutely must be permitted to rest himself as much as possible, and under no circumstances is he to engage in anything more strenuous than walking. It seems to me that he is either a magnet for misfortune, or he is overly inclined to take unnecessary risks. Please remind him that he is not, in fact, made of cast-iron.  
Also, I have been reading in the papers of the Molesey business, and I must congratulate you on successfully concluding the case. It seemed a hopeless puzzle for quite a while.  
Dr. J. Ward

--

Lestrade,  
I have not yet had the opportunity to congratulate you for your success with the Molesey case. I doubt that even I would have noticed the impression the ring left in the finger of the man's glove. You demonstrated truly remarkable detective work throughout the affair, and it clearly paid off quite well. I believe even the late Mr. Sherlock Holmes would have had some trouble with that problem. Well done, Lestrade. This is a proud day for the Yard.  
Gregson  
P.S. You should really consider cleaning off your desk.

* * *

_A/N: Gregson can be gracious :) I always wondered exactly what the Molesey mystery was (from EMPT--Holmes says that Lestrade handled it with less than his usual--that's to say, he handled it fairly well XD) and decided to make it up myself :)_


	7. Hodgepodge

_A/N: Apologies for the late update, all. I struggled for a very long time with this chapter; I had originally marked it as being complete before the end of the second year, but I just couldn't make it come out right. So I combined it with the chapter that came after it, and I ended up with this, which I guess ends around the same time that Holmes leaves Tibet. I'm just assuming that he keeps the name Sigerson for the most part throughout his journeys, so I'll probably continue to call him that. I'm still not very happy with how this chapter turned out, but it's much better than it was, let me tell you :)_

_And so, dear readers, with the conclusion of this chapter we embark upon the third year of the Great Hiatus. Thanks to everyone who has been reading and reviewing so far! It means a lot to hear how much you like this. _

**

* * *

****An excerpt from the diary of Mrs. Mary Watson:**

A certain Colonel James Moriarty has been making life quite difficult for John lately. The former has written a number of letters to various publications, defending the memory of his late brother, Professor James Moriarty. (Why they are both named James is quite beyond me). I have not read all the letters he has written, but what I have read is quite enough for me to know that it is unashamed slander.

The man insists that it was not his brother but Mr. Holmes who was at fault in the matter. He describes the Professor as mistreated in the published accounts, claiming that he was innocent of all charges laid against his memory. Furthermore, he makes Mr. Holmes out to be a ruthless, misguided man who knew that the Professor was innocent, but had a personal vendetta with him and sought out his destruction. Suffice to say, it is an entirely fictitious version of the matter, and that he should insult the name and memory of Mr. Holmes like that is truly a crime.

John is still unsure what to do—he does not want to publish an account of the case, but he fears his hand may be forced by the Colonel's actions. I wish there were something I could do.

--

**A note on the still unfortunately messy desk of Inspector G. Lestrade:**

Lestrade,

Colonel Moriarty has raised some complaints concerning the accusations made against his late brother's name. He claims that Mr. Holmes was at fault throughout the affair, falsely accusing the Professor of the crimes he committed, and demands that his brother's name be cleared. He has accused me of twisting the facts, and while I am certainly his primary focus for the moment, he may turn his attentions to yourself and Gregson, as you were of some assistance and it is known that you both worked often with Holmes in the past. I thought it prudent to warn you ahead of time.

Patterson

--

**A series of missives between Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes:**

Mycroft—

I fear I must rely on your generosity once again. My travels are taking longer than I anticipated. No doubt Moran and Rollins are being careful to keep their heads low.

I shall be leaving Tibet soon.

--Sherlock

--

Sherlock—

I have heard very little of Moran still. Most probably he has given up blatantly criminal acts for some time. How is it that he escaped your nets anyhow? Rollins is being less inconspicuous than is entirely prudent, to my mind.

Enclosed is a letter written to the London Times by Colonel James Moriarty. As you can see, he is not happy about the accusations made against his brother in the trial. Supposedly you are a conniving conspirator determined to drag the name of Professor James Moriarty unjustly through the mud. You fabricated all evidence against the Professor, and you were the one after him when you perished on the continent, and good riddance to you. I thought it might amuse you.

--Mycroft

P.S. Why the devil are they both named James?

--

Mycroft—

Moran escaped because he was cunning, and I was not present to ensure his capture. He had hidden his tracks quite well. If Rollins exposes himself do not hesitate to send me a wire; news is slightly delayed in getting to me here.

Moriarty's protests are quite fascinating. He must be just as pleasant a person as his late brother was. Of course, I am not there to defend my name, so the public shall have to endure his rants for the time being.

--Sherlock

P.S. I have wondered about the question of their first names myself. Perhaps their parents did not have an extensive repertoire of names at their disposal. That, or they did not wish to bother with remembering more than one name.

--

**The beginning of a page in a notebook belonging to Doctor John Watson:**

_It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes was distinguished…_

_--_

**A single missive from Mr. Mycroft Holmes to Mr. Sherlock Holmes:**

Sherlock—

Enclosed is a copy of the Strand, in which Doctor Watson has published an account of your death. I daresay you will find it interesting. He refused to allow your name to be tarnished by the Colonel, who has ceased to voice his displeasure. Apparently the public is less inclined to believe him than the Doctor.

You should tell him.

--Mycroft

--

**The crumpled contents of the wastebasket of Mr. Sigerson:**

My dear Watson,

I have just finished reading your account of our little adventure with the late Professor Moriarty. It was most interesting, and quite accurate, apart from the description of my death.

--

My dear Watson,

I am not, in fact, dead.

--

My dear Watson,

Having finished reading your account of our adventure in Switzerland, which you have titled _The Final Problem,_ I have decided to alert you to several inaccuracies present in the text, the most pressing being the detail of my death.

--

My dear Watson,

--

My dear Watson,

From reading your account of the business with the late Professor Moriarty,

--

**A small note in the bottom right hand corner of a scrap of paper on the desk of Mr. Sigerson:**

The best and wisest man he has ever known? My dear Watson, you really must meet more people, if the best and wisest you have ever known finds himself incapable of completing a single letter.

--

**An even smaller note written unconsciously on the bottom left hand corner of the same paper:**

The best and wisest man he has ever known?


	8. Keeping in Touch

_A/N: Hello my lovely readers! This is, quite probably, the last update I shall make for a while! The reason? School. AARGH. I start school on Wednesday, and until I get settled in and fall into a routine, I will be updating irregularly at best. (Come to think of it, that's how I update now. Maybe this won't be such a change.) But once I've recovered from the initial school shock, I'll probably be back to normal. _

_Oh, and I promise I'll have the next chapter of Fragments up eventually! I already know what I'm going to write for it, I just have to... you know... write it._

_As far as this story goes--This is a relatively short chapter, which I assume ends around the time Holmes is heading to France. Throughout this story I've been assuming that the postal service for people who are dashing about between Tibet and Persia and Khartoum and the like is pretty slow._

* * *

****

**A series of missives between Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes: **

Mycroft--

Have left Tibet; am in Persia. Am relying on you to inform me of important news in London. Will be traveling to Mecca in another month or two in all probability.

--Sherlock

--

Sherlock--

Rollins believes you to be dead. I assume that you were expecting him to be the first to expose himself. He has beome reckless. The Yard his having a hard time at the moment.

The Doctor's wife has not been well lately.

--Mycroft

--

Sherlock--

Still no news on Rollins or Moran. One unsolved murder and another case of robbery on hand at the Yard. It's not looking like a good year for them so far.

--Mycroft

--

Sherlock--

I hope you are getting these letters. I have no way of knowing whether or not they are being forwarded to you. It has been some months since you left Tibet and I have not heard from you since, though you wished to be informed of events in London. If you are recieving these letters, send some word. I dislike wasting perfectly good ink and paper.

Rollins is becoming careless. I believe he has returned entirely to his previously criminal life, sans Moriarty, of course. This would be a good opportunity for you to return.

--Mycroft

--

Sherlock--

If you are getting these letters, for heaven's sake take a moment to reply. At least send a note confirming that you are alive.

Another unsolved murder in London. I believe Rollins was behind it, though it was not he who pulled the trigger. His former caution seems to be gone. I would consider this an opportune moment for you to return, if you wished to ensure his capture.

--Mycroft

--

Mycroft--

Enclosed is a sealed envelope detailing the events that took place during my visit at Khartoum. I assume that telling you is much the same as telling the Foreign Office, but you may send it directly to them if you wish, as I have used an alias. It was a most interesting business, but no one was seriously injured, and I'm sure they will be able to rebuild those walls.

I take it you sent me several messages since my departure from Tibet. I'm afraid I only recieved the last one. It is nice to know that you were worried for my well-being, brother.

--Sherlock

--

Sherlock--

I would have liked to enclose all the grey hairs that your last letter caused me, but it would have made the envelope too thick to post. I sent your account directly to the Foreign Office, as I wanted nothing to do with whatever beastly business you had gotten up to, and left it to them to sort out. Despite my best efforts, some word has reached me of your misadventures. I refuse to believe the part about the monkeys.

In case you have entirely forgotten that you are pretending to be dead in order to ensure the capture of dangerous criminals, let me remind you of the fact. Rollins is still evading capture, somehow, but I believe Inspector Lestrade has become suspicious of him. Moran is as elusive as ever. He remains a prominant member of the upper class, and has had no contact with any of the criminal classes in his lifetime. I shall continue to keep you informed.

--Mycroft

P.S. Worried for you well-being, brother? I merely wished to continue to keep tabs on your antics so as to determine how slowly I should roast you upon your return.

* * *

_A/N: I put this chapter in to give a sense of what Mycroft and Holmes were doing/thinking about in the time between Tibet and France. When I read it over again it seems kind of pointless, but it's basically here to show what's going on at this point. More to come :)_


	9. Mishmash

_A/N: Hey, look, another chapter! After a brief period of the worst writer's block I've ever had, I'm rolling like the proverbial non-moss-gathering stone! It's not brilliant, I'm afraid, but it stopped getting better at about the fifth draft, so I just put it up... and the good news is that I wrote the chapter after this one a long time ago, and I already know what I'm writing for the chapter after the chapter after that one, so I might be able to get the whole thing up before I leave! Wait, I leave Wednesday. Well, I'll get most of it up before then..._

_I had some trouble getting some of these to come out right... not sure if I succeeded in the end or not. _

_EDIT: I just reread this and found several typos and spelling mistakes. Guess I should be focusing more on sleep... if you see any, feel free to point them out so I can fix them... :)_

* * *

**A series of missives between Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes:**

Sherlock--

Rollins is still being less than prudent for a man in his position--this would seem an excellent time for your return, although Moran would certainly still be a problem. I also believe that return would be advisable as Mrs. Watson has not been at all well lately--I told you of this earlier, but I believe it was in one of the letters that went astray. There is not much hope for her recovery, though the doctors are doing everything they can.

--Mycroft

--

Mycroft--

What is the nature of the illness? How long has she? And how is Watson?

--Sherlock

--

Sherlock--

I have not been privy to much information concerning her illness, but I believe several tumors are at the heart of the problem. As for how long she has, her condition has worsened greatly. The Doctor is doing as well as can be expected. He knew his wife's health was failing, and has had time to adjust. Still, it is no easy thing for him.

--Mycroft

P.S. Rollins has, I believe, killed two men directly. The Yard is working on the murder--Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson have both been placed on the case. I do not know if this is a good thing or not, but you may have your man quite soon. Again, now would be an excellent time for you to cease this elaborate deception.

* * *

**Several notes from the desk of Inspector Tobias Gregson (who keeps his desk in much better order than one of his colleagues does):**

Gregson--

If you've still had no luck with the Morrison murder, perhaps you should shelve it for the time being. There's only so much we can do. The double murder near Pall Mall will require our full attention

--Lestrade

--

Roderick Tolliver, 32, and James Arnolds, 34, found dead from gunshot wounds. Tolliver shot twice; once in the back and once in the thigh; Arnolds shot through the head. Killer stood talking to them before shooting. No witnesses (there never are).

--

Gregson,

There's been another robbery down in the Soho area. It looks like the same hand as the other ones.

Bradstreet

--

Inspector,

Morgan confessed to the first robbery, but says he wasn't behind the Soho one. We have him in custody.

Wilson

--

Gregson--

Something Arnolds' wife said--he was nervous about a business venture. Tolliver was apparently involved in something similar. Perhaps Rollins is the link?

--Lestrade

* * *

**Several notes from the mound of papers that used to be Inspector G. Lestrade's desk:**

Perhaps we should question Rollins, then. There is nothing more to be done on the Morrison murder--I hate to say it, but it doesn't look like it's getting anywhere. I have heard similar of your Parker mystery, and the James business that Bradstreet has been wrestling with for a while. Why the deuce does the London underworld decide to strike all at once like this?

--Gregson

--

-Geoffery Parker, 29, found dead in his rooms on Montague Street. He'd moved into Mr. Holmes old quarters. Coincidence? (probably)

-Stabbed through the heart with "decorative" knife--Why can't decorative knives be made of rubber?

-Door locked from the inside, of course--Entriely unnecessary!

-Well liked by everyone

-Not a single bloody clue to be found.

--

Lestrade--

No, the James murder is getting nowhere. Series of Soho burglaries apparently unrelated.

Bradstreet

--

Heard you and Gregson questioned Rollins today, with some difficulty. If you can solve this one, it just might save our reputations, which this year has done nothing to uphold so far. Good luck.

Patterson

--

-Rollins denies all involvement, of course

-Found similar firearm in his posession--possibly enough to go on

-Arnolds worked at Whitehall, Tolliver was a banker. Possible link--both were financially unstable

-Note in Arnolds' pocket with sums of money

--

Lestrade,

I cannot find you anywhere. I've been to see Tolliver's wife again. She told he he'd seemed distracted, and talked about writing up his will; as you know he was rather young, which lead me to think that he'd anticipated something like this occuring. I asked to look through the papers on his desk, where I found a note hidden in the envelope with the draft of his will--he talked about being approached about aiding a robbery with some compensation in it for him--presumably the bank at which he worked. Gave no real details; probably didn't know them.

Gregson

--

-Staking out bank--no one knows HOW Rollins (assuming it was Rollins, which of course it was) proposes to get in

-Whitehall connection supposedly to ensure that the Yard was hindered--**CENSORED**s.

-Why go to all the trouble? Must be something important at the bank

-Tolliver would know how, probably. Of course!

--

As much as I hate to admit it, if he hadn't left us that note we would never have gotten anywhere until it was too late.

Why would he leave the bodies to be discovered like that? (Probably taunting us--he made his view of Yarders perfectly clear when we questioned him)

--

Lestrade,

I heard how the Rollins business went--well done to you and Gregson on getting your man. I also understand you found several incriminating documents in Rollins' possession, which connected him to Moriarty. It is a pity he is not alive to answer fully for his crimes, but what he got was certainly no more than he deserved.

Patterson

--

Lestrade,

You and Gregson did quite well with the Rollins business, I thought. I understand Gregson would not be with us today had it not been for your intervention. You have succeeded in salvaging some of our reputation, and ended the career of a dangerous criminal--not a bad outcome, I must say.

Bradstreet

--

That note Tolliver left practically handed it to us. If it hadn't been for that, we never would have been there in time. Why is it that we are suddenly up to our necks in unsolvable crimes?

I don't think we appreciated Sherlock Holmes enough while we had him.

* * *

**A note sent by Mr. Mycroft Holmes shortly after these events:**

Sherlock--

Rollins is dead. Mrs. Watson is fading.

--Mycroft


	10. Truth

**The contents of an unsealed envelope addressed to Doctor John Watson, which has spent time on the floor of the room of Mr. Sigerson, various pockets of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and buried deep in a desk drawer in 221B Baker Street:**

My dear Watson,

I do not know how to begin this letter, nor do I know how to tell you what I am going to tell you. All I am sure of is that you have been unfairly kept in the dark for far too long, and I mean to set that right, no matter how difficult the task may be. It is the least I can do for so dear a friend, who is so undeserving of the treatment I have offered.

Sherlock Holmes is alive, Watson. I am alive. This letter is not a hoax, it is only the truth. You were under the impression that I had perished at the Reichenbach falls, locked in mortal combat with Professor Moriarty (and indeed, this was very nearly true). That is the impression which I intended to give you, and the rest of the world. I had my reasons for this deception--sound reasons. I knew that there were men who would escape Inspector Patterson's nets as he rounded up Moriarty's gang. I knew that if I were to disappear, they would become relaxed and eventually expose themselves. I also knew that if I were to return to London, I would very likely not live to see a full day in that marvelous city from which I have been absent for far too long. It is likely that you would have been in danger as well.

So I decided to disappear. I had not planned for such an occurrence--I was quite certain, when I perceived Professor Moriarty on the path with me after your departure, that my career had indeed come to a close. However, I saw the opportunity when it presented itself, and I would have been a fool not to take advantage of it. After my confrontation with Moriarty, which resulted in his plunge into the waters of Reichenbach Falls, I scaled the cliff face which towered over the path. In that way I was out of sight when you and your companions discovered the scene. Yes, I saw you, my dear Watson, and I heard you calling me. The only thing that kept me from answering was that I knew exactly what I had to do, and I was determined to do it.

Shortly after you left, I realized I was not alone--a confederate of Moriarty's began sending boulders down at me from the cliff far above. I barely made it down from there alive, but somehow I found myself on the path and ran fast and far over the mountains. I ended up in Florence, certain that no one knew what had become of me.

For nearly three years now, I have been traveling. I spent a good deal of time in Tibet, then passed through Persia, Mecca and, very briefly, Khartoum (I hope to someday tell you of my adventures there, but to do so at this time would be most imprudent). I now find myself in France, awaiting an opportunity to return to London.

I am, of course, stalling, though for what purpose I cannot imagine. I know that I will not post this letter. In all probability I shall destroy it, obliterate all signs that it ever existed. Yet I continue to write it, for I do not believe that I could stop even if I tried. I do not understand this feeling, but I cannot fight it. You have always described me as emotionless, which is certainly not an unwarranted description. But if you knew how I am feeling as I pen these words, you might think differently. There are so many things that I want to say to you, but do not know the words to say them.

When I heard of your wife's illness, and that she was not long for this world, I was struck by the incredible unfairness of it all. My dear Watson, if there is any family that does not deserve such tragedy, it is yours. You and your wife deserve so much better than sadness and hardship. I have been told that you have had some time to grieve, to adjust; that it is not the shock that my own supposed death was. Thank heaven for small blessings. The last I heard from Mycroft, her condition was most dire, and by this time, as I sit here writing to you, I have no doubt that she has already passed on. I wish that I could be there now, Watson. I wish that I could return, to offer you some comfort during this time, but I do not know how. I do not know what I would do or say to ease your pain. I am helpless to help you, after all you have done for me, and that makes me more ashamed than I could ever admit to another living soul.

That is one reason why I cannot return, not now. I do not know what I would do for you. But there is another reason, one which is even more difficult for me to admit. When I began this ruse, I did not tell you that I was alive for fear that some remaining agent of Moriarty's would discover my secret--if you acted in a manner different from that of a man who has just lost a friend, it would have been suspicious. As time has moved on, however, my reason for keeping the truth from you has changed. I am afraid, Watson. I am afraid of what your reaction will be to this great deception of mine. It has eaten away at me, though I have done my best to ignore it; it has kept me awake at nights. I am afraid that, when it is revealed exactly what I have done, you will never forgive me. That you will no longer consider me your friend.

In your account of my death, you called me the best and wisest man you have ever known. I can only think now of how wrong you were, my dear Watson. I am far from that ideal. Would such a man have deceived you as I have? Would such a man be afraid to face you after all these years? Would he be afraid to face the consequences of his actions? I am afraid, Watson, of those consequences, for if you do not forgive me for this deception, which you have every reason not to, I will have paid far to high a cost. I have been afraid before now, but never have I been more so than when I think that I may lose your friendship, which has become the most important thing in the world to me, though I did not understand this until too late.

I said to you, years ago, that "I am lost without my Boswell." I spoke in jest then, of course. I did not realize the immense truth of that statement. But I know better now. If there is anything I have learned over the past three years, my dear Watson, it is that I cannot do without you. So I beg you, my dear friend--forgive me. Forgive me for lying to you, for keeping you in the dark all this time, for causing you unnecessary pain. For the sake of all those years of friendship that we shared, forgive me for these years apart.

I know that I must return to London soon. I cannot allow Moran to continue to run loose as he is, and I cannot continue to deceive you. I know now that I cannot tell you in a letter, so I shall have to tell you in person. I only hope that, when I do, my fears will not turn to reality. Until then, my dear Watson, I remain, as always,

Very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes

--

**A note:**

Sherlock--

Mary Watson is gone.

--M


	11. Eulogy

_A/N: Hi everyone, it's me again, on uber-sketchy hotel internet :P This is the last chance I'll have at a computer until Friday (which is when I get my SHINY NEW COMPUTER! #glee#) so I just thought I'd drop this off while I had the chance :) _

_A couple things: First of all, huge thank yous go out to everyone who reviewed chapter 9--I didn't respond to any of you because, well... I had no time :P Also huge thank yous to everyone who reviewed chapter 10! I plan on responding to you once I've posted this chapter. I'm really glad you all liked it so much, since I've devoted pretty much all my time over the past five days to writing and editing it. My goal was to make it really jarring, as a contrast to all the other chapters that just had snippets, and I'm pretty pleased with the way it turned out, so I'm glad it worked :D _

_As for this chapter... I didn't plan on writing it at all, to tell the truth. I was just going to jump straight to the chapter that's coming after this one. But then I fell asleep in the car and I had this wicked vivid dream, and when I woke up I had this chapter title floating in my head, and I knew what I had to write to go with it. Weird story, I know, but if I didn't write this I would probably go crazy. Crazier. _

_Anyway, this author's note is becoming quite long winded, so I think I'll cut it off here. See you in a couple days!_

* * *

**An excerpt from the private diary of Inspector G. Lestrade:**

Mrs. Mary Watson.

I'm afraid I did not know her very well--I was at her wedding, but of course I had not worked on the case of the Sign of Four, and had not met her previously. I was there at Doctor Watson's invitation. I am not one to wax eloquent on the beauty of a marriage ceremony, but I must say, their wedding was truly lovely. Doctor Watson looked about as nervous as I've ever seen him on that day, and I've seen him face down London's most dangerous criminals without so much as batting an eye. But when the bride came down the aisle, he turned into the happiest man on Earth. I think it affected everyone--even Mr. Holmes, who was looking rather put out at attending a wedding at all, much less being practically threatened into the position of best man, seemed to soften at such obvious joy.

I met her again a couple times afterwards--Doctor Watson and I saw a good deal of each other over the years, through Mr. Holmes' cases, and I had the chance to make her acquaintance. A truly charming woman, was Mrs. Watson. I had little opportunity to do more than exchange pleasantries on most occasions, but even through that small interaction I got the sense that she was both kind and intelligent.

She was really very young. Too young.

I attended her funeral, again for Doctor Watson's sake, and because from what I knew of her, her life deserved recognition. It was a beautiful funeral as well. I do not have an eloquent turn of phrase to describe it--I have never had much use for decorative adjectives--but thinking back, I wish I could give a name to the tone of the service. It was clear, from the abundance of people who gathered on that day, that Mrs. Watson was well loved.

I wish I could say that I have never seen Doctor Watson as he looked on the day of her funeral--bereaved, distant, empty. But I have. He looked that way when he returned to London from Switzerland, nearly three years ago.

--

**An excerpt from the private diary of Mr. Sherlock Holmes:**

Mrs. Mary Watson.

It was indeed a fateful day, that she walked so unexpectedly into our lives. Mary Morstan she was then, and what a puzzling little problem she had in store for us. The Sign of Four, Watson titled it. It certainly was a case worthy of remembrance.

It was also the herald of a life change for all three of us. Watson was undoubtedly and irrevocably in love with her after only a day of her acquaintance, and I was not at all surprised to learn that he had asked for her hand in marriage by the conclusion of the mystery.

I confess, I was quite selfish when it came to my Watson. Upon discovering that I would soon be forced to share him, I was entirely disappointed that he would choose to give up those trifling little problems which we shared. But I changed my mind when I heard him talk about her, and when I saw how his eyes lit up when he saw her. I am not usually one to aknowledge the softer emotions, as Watson has commented many times before, but when I saw all this, how could I not support his choice?

Mary Watson, nee Morstan, was one of the most admirable women of my acquaintance. She had instinct and intuition, and a special intelligence that is rare indeed among the fairer sex, in my experience. And she made Watson the happiest man on earth. I told Watson at the beginning that I could not congratulate him, but when I saw how happy he was, I changed my mind. Mary Watson was truly perfect for my friend.

There is no one that I would rather have had looking after Watson over the past three years.

--

**An excerpt from the private diary of Dr. John Watson:**

Mrs. Mary Watson.

I have never truly understood the phenomenon of love at first sight until she walked into our Baker Street rooms that day, so long ago. I had heard of it, of course, read of it, but I must never have truly believed it. But as trite as it sounds--the moment I saw her, I was certain. By the end of the first day of our acquaintance, I was fully in love with her. And somehow, by some divine providence, she felt the same. And so she became Mrs. Mary Watson, and I became the luckiest man on earth.

How is it that she became my wife? What did I do to deserve such a blessing? For a blessing she truly was, an angel. She seemed to understand everything, everything about me that needed to be understood. She encouraged me to continue to accompany Holmes on his cases, though I had initially planned on giving them up entirely in favor of a practice and life as a married man. She seemed to know that they were an important part of my life.

In her last days, when she was becoming weaker by the hour, I came so very close to despair. It was her that kept me from sinking into that inky blackness of the mind. "I do not want you to blame yourself, John," she said, her voice crystal clear even in her weakened state. "I know you--there's no cause for you to feel guilty, but you will all the same. I do not want you to feel guilty, do you understand?" She smiled at me then, and her smile was just as beautiful as it has ever been. "I love you."

My dear, sweet Mary. You saved me once before, when my life was at its darkest. You have saved me again.

--

**The last entry in the private diary of the late Mrs. Mary Watson: **

Mrs. Mary Watson.

I remember, after John left me at Mrs. Forrester's after the mystery of the Agra treasure, thinking that phrase to myself, over and over again. Mrs. Mary Watson. I liked the way it sounded in my head, so I said it out loud. Mrs. Mary Watson. And it sounded even better out loud, so I said it again, and again, until I was practically shouting it, and Mrs. Forrester came in, no doubt wondering if I'd gone quite mad.

I was but a girl then--older than I should have been, having lost my family so early, but still so very young. That night was one of the happiest of my life. I had the whole world at my feet, and I'm sure that if I'd tried, I could have danced on air. Mrs. Mary Watson.

I never thought John and I would be parted so soon. But life--and death--work in mysterious ways. I am content with the knowledge that we will meet again, someday. I only wish that this were not so hard for him--he is still grieving over the death of his dearest friend, and now he must be faced with my own death as well.

John will insist upon feeling guilty, I am certain. Perhaps he will wish we had spent more time together while we had it. He will feel guilty about accompanying Mr. Holmes on his adventures, which he loved so much. My dear John... I know he would have given it all up for me, if I had asked. All at once, he would have, and never looked back. But I never would have asked that of him, because if I did, he wouldn't really have been John anymore. As much as he loves the simple pleasures of life, he needs adventure, as well.

I wish he could understand that I could not have asked for a more loving, kind, caring man as my husband. And I know that he loves me, just as much as I love him. And that is enough.

My strength is failing. I cannot stay with him for much longer. I hope he truly understands that he has nothing to blame himself for. And how much I do love him.

I have but one regret--when I am gone, John will have no one. My greatest wish now is that, when I am gone, there will be someone left who cares for John as much as I do, so that he will not be alone...


	12. At Long Last

_A/N: Hi everyone! I know I haven't been updating--I've had no computer access (woe!). But I have a computer! It is not, alas, my SHINY NEW COMPUTER. I got the upgrade, the shipment was delayed, so I now have a shiny temporary computer. Which is sad, because that means there's really no point in putting all my stuff on this one. But it is a computer! And I have a fantastic roommate, and the best bathrooms on campus, and the kid next door to me is a Doctor Who fanatic, so I will be spending all my time in HIS room :D In the meantime, here be chapter. _

_And thank you all for your wonderful reviews! I may not be able to reply to all of them--there was an unusually large number of anonymous reviews last time, and I just don't have as much time as I'd like right now. Ironically, it may be when classes actually start that I will have the most time :P But I just want you all to know that I appreciate them SO MUCH! You're all fantastic :D_

_About this chapter--I'm assuming that it's happening soon after the previous chapter, but not RIGHT away. There's been some time._

* * *

**A telegram from Mr. Mycroft Holmes to Mr. Sherlock Holmes:**

SIGERSON

ADAIR MURDERED STOP COLONEL HAS MADE CRITICAL MISTAKE STOP COME AT ONCE STOP IF NOT HERE IN TWO DAYS WILL COME AFTER YOU STOP

MYCROFT HOLMES

--

**A note on the (thankfully recently neatened) desk of Inspector G. Lestrade:**

-Ronald Adair found shot through head in room

-No gun found in room, but could not have been fired through window at that range

-Door locked from the inside--**CENSORED CENSORED**

-No one could have scaled wall and shot through window

-No motive

-No means

-How the devil?

--

**Several telegrams exchanged between Mr. Mycroft Holmes and Mr. Sherlock Holmes:**

MYCROFT

AM WRAPPING UP AFFAIRS IN FRANCE STOP HAVE NOT HEARD OF ADAIR MURDER STOP SEND DETAILS STOP

SIGERSON

--

SIGERSON

ADAIR CAME HOME AFTER NIGHT OUT WITH COLONEL AND OTHERS STOP SHUT SELF IN ROOM STOP SHOT AND KILLED BY CERTAIN GUN STOP WILL EXPLAIN MORE UPON YOUR ARRIVAL STOP MISS DANIELS SENDS LOVE STOP

MYCROFT

--

**The note sent to Inspector G. Lestrade which, when he read it, caused him to spray a mouthful of coffee all over his colleague Inspector T. Gregson (who later grudgingly forgave him for the incident, considering the nature of the note):**

Lestrade--

I would be much obliged if you would station yourself and some trustworthy men on Baker Street, near 221B. I myself will be hidden in the empty house across from our old rooms. If this little venture is successful you will have the opportunity to ensure the capture of a dangerous criminal, who has been at liberty for far too long.

--Sherlock Holmes

--

**An excerpt from the personal diary of Mr. Mycroft Holmes:**

Sherlock is coming home. After three years of doing heaven knows what for three years across the continent, he is coming back to London, to reside in his old rooms at Baker Street, and continue to make life difficult for the London criminal.

I don't know if this makes me more or less nervous than before.

But the elaborate deception is finally over. I must confess--I am glad to have my brother back.

I am now, of course, obligated to destroy this page, for fear that he may find it.

--

**An excerpt from the personal diary of Inspector G. Lestrade:**

I have in custody the criminal responsible for the death of Ronald Adair.

He is one of London's most respected war veterans, a very prestigious gentleman who also happens to be a cold blooded killer and right hand man to Professor James Moriarty.

I ensured his capture with the substantial help of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was killed in Switzerland three years ago.

I think I may be going mad.

--

**An excerpt from the personal diary of Doctor John Watson:**

Sherlock Holmes is alive.

Even as I pen the words, some hours after the fact was revealed to me, I cannot fully believe it. But Sherlock Holmes is alive.

He is across from me now, asleep upon the couch, after we had stayed awake until nearly four AM, telling stories. I encouraged him to sleep, seeing how weary he looked after such a long day on his part. he grumbled, of course, just as he always did, but decided that my suggestion was not without merit. Aside from the acquiescing, it was as though he had never left, and I am sure that once he has fully recovered from the journey and from the excitement of the night I will be hard pressed to get him to rest at all.

And he is truly alive. I still find myself thrilling at that moment of revelation, that single second of disbelief and astonishment. And fear of hope. For I have carefully trained myself not to hope over the past three years. Hope invariably leads to disappointment when one is hoping for the dead to return to life.

Sherlock Holmes is alive. How four simple words can flood my life with astonishment and joy! I have never been more overjoyed to see anyone, ever. I had lost Holmes, and he has returned. I think, perhaps, that he may have been worried as to my reaction to his deception, and indeed I suppose I shall have to address that in myself at some point. But not now. Now I can only be thankful that he is alive. I have my dearest friend and companion back again.

I myself am growing weary now. I should go to sleep, but I cannot. I am afraid that if I do, I shall wake up, and this will all have been some wonderful dream.


	13. Epilogue

_A/N: Sorry for the lateness of the update, all! I was feeling really uninspired for a long time. And, for the first time in a long time, I actually have homework. #shocked gasps# I finally finished, though! And it's uber-fluffy, so beware._

_Sooo, last night I realized something. Well, a couple things. For one thing, I remembered that dialogue is one of my strongest points. I'm not sure why this is, but I have a good feel for voices. I also realized, late at night while I was trying to finish Watson's diary entry in the last chapter, that this story is a bunch of things that were WRITTEN DOWN during the Hiatus. Which means that this is a story ENTIRELY WITHOUT DIALOGUE._

_...#headdesk#_

_The good news is, people's voices do come through their writing, so I was able to get that in, but there wasn't the dynamic of having the person in the room with you, which I've been missing. But I decided, in the end, to keep the dialogue out. It makes the story hold together better. And anyway, I've no idea what anyone could be saying in any case._

_Anyway, to make this author's note even more long winded, let me just say that it has been a fantastic experience writing this story. I am so indescribably thrilled that you've all liked this so much. But, I am sad to say, the epilogue is upon us. The Great Hiatus is over, Holmes is back, and this story is about things written down during the Hiatus, so this is the end of the road. I'd like to give extra special thanks to my livejournal mates, who have sometimes been reading this twice and who encouraged me to continue from the original one shot that is now the prologue in the first place. And thank you cookies go to all of you who have reviewed, because your reviews make my day. _

_And just to make this even longer, I should point out that: Yes, school is starting. So this will PROBABLY be my last full blown story for a while. I will keep up with Fragments! (I still have to write that chapter that I've had half sketched out in my head for about two weeks, I know...) But studies do get in the way of important stuff like fanfiction, so I'm afraid I will not be as active as I would like. But I'll still be constantly around :)_

* * *

The so familiar Baker Street rooms were exactly as they had always been. The Persian slipper was full of tobacco, the cigars were in the coal scuttle, and Mycroft had even made sure that the stylized VR of bullet holes in the wall remained as it was. (Watson was not entirely sure that the latter was a good thing.) But, more importantly, it was home.

Sherlock Holmes was back. There was a buzz around London for some time, for although Holmes refused to have his name published in any sort of newspaper, word has a way of getting around when the dead suddenly come back to life. Mycroft complained for some time later that he was receiving small cards congratulating him on the fact that his brother was not dead after all.

Eventually, life settled back into a state of relative normalcy. Holmes returned to Baker Street, Mycroft finally cleared up the Khartoum incident, and Lestrade, after a brief period during which he walked about the city with the look of a man who was permanently in need of a drink (which indeed he was), once again became accustomed to going to Holmes for assistance as it was needed. What truly heralded the true return to normalcy for Holmes, however, was Watson's move back into Baker Street.

Holmes had been hoping that such a move would take place. Upon his return he had found his Baker Street rooms emptier than they had been, though Mycroft had indeed kept them exactly as they were. When Watson was sitting across from him in his customary armchair, however, the emptiness was gone. Holmes was truly relieved when Watson had decided to return to their old rooms. He wished he knew how to tell his friend how much he had missed him over the past three years, but he could not find the words.

Somehow, though, he knew that Watson did understand. It was one of the most fascinating and endearing characteristics of the man. Holmes was brilliant when it came to careful observation and reasoning, but Watson was wise in a way that he knew he would, or could, never be.

And so, eventually, life moved on. Aside from the odd souvenier lying around Baker Street, there was very soon almost nothing to indicate that Holmes had ever been away.

All traces were not obliterated, however. Inside Holmes' desk drawer, amongst the mass of papers, odds and ends, and the occasional cigarette was an unsealed envelope, addressed to Doctor John Watson.

Holmes could not have given a good reason why he had kept the letter, which he had never posted. It is doubtful that he knew the answer himself. Yet for some reason he held on to it, even after it was clear that there was no further use for its continued existence. Perhaps it was meant to show that he was not himself flawless. Perhaps it was to prove to some small part of him that he was not emotionless as he appeared to be. Perhaps its purpose was to serve as a reminder of something shameful that he had done in the past, and though he had been forgiven by the injured party, he found that he could not forgive himself, not yet. Holmes simply avoided speculating after a while and, like the letter itself, pushed all thoughts of it to a dark, neglected corner and let them sit undisturbed.

And so the letter remained in the desk drawer.

Some years later, a cloudless night when London was quiet and Holmes was restless, the detective chanced to be hunting through his desk when he came upon the letter again. He was struck, for some reason, by the fact that the letter was quite useless now, and that it was perhaps time to throw it away completely. He moved to toss the whole thing into the fire, but something stayed his hand, and he reached into the envelope to remove the letter one last time.

The letter was all there, but there was something more. A note, which had not previously been there, tucked neatly into the folded pages.

_My dear Holmes,_

_I can see now that you did not mean for this letter to ever find its way into my hands. In my defense, I would like to point out that it is difficult to ignore an envelope addressed to one's self, but even so, I apologise for the breach of privacy. However, having read what you have written, I believe there are some important things that you should know._

_I will not pretend that the three years of your absence were easy for me. On the contrary, they were certainly the most difficult of my life. Losing you was such a shock to my system that for a long time I did not know that I would ever recover--I am still of the opinion that it was only your return that allowed me to put your death behind me. Losing Mary on top of that made the years almost unbearable. Three years is a very long time to deceive anyone, my dear Holmes, and I know now that I need not have wept over your demise, for it did not truly occur. I dearly wish that I had know, Holmes, so that I could have been spared that unnecessary pain. You know this, of course. You have expressed it quite clearly here, though I doubt you will ever communicate the knowledge aloud. Let me confirm that you are absolutely right on that point._

_But--never forgive you? My dear Holmes, for all your cleverness, you really can be unreasonably dense at times. Did you truly think that I would never forgive you? That I would throw away so great a friendship just like that? It was an undeserved deception, Holmes, but I know that you had your reasons, and though I do not entirely agree with them, I confess, I understand them. And let me assure you that I forgave you the moment I saw you. Your friendship is much too important for me to lose, my dear Holmes. And I am truly honored to call you my friend. _

_As always, my dear fellow,_

_Very sincerely yours,_

_John Watson_

Holmes folded the note again with slightly shaking hands and replaced it in the envelope, which in turn was replaced in the desk, as an emotion he could not name nor find the words to express welled up inside his chest.

He shut the desk drawer with a snap and turned to look at where Watson was sleeping in his customary armchair. A book lay open on his lap, and he was snoring gently, his face peaceful. A slight smile touched his lips. His old friend, his comrade, his Boswell, with whom he had been through so many trials and adventures, had indeed forgiven him.

_And I am truly honored to call you my friend._

What amazed Holmes the most was that he felt so _much_.


End file.
